


hooked on your [love]

by honeypottrap



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Captain's forfeit, Dubious Consent, Fucked-up Martyrdom, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Unrequited Love, shockingly little sex in this given the premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypottrap/pseuds/honeypottrap
Summary: "T-- tonight?" Auston says, stuttering a bit, but Jake just folds his arms, unsympathetic."Yeah, why not?""It's just, I've-- I've never--" Oh. Oh, no.(It’s not heroic, what Mo’s doing. Not really. But it’s easier when it feels like it is.)





	hooked on your [love]

**Author's Note:**

> for the sinbin fill fest, [prompt here](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=4827086#cmt4827086).  
> [elenajames' legendary-tier captain's forfeit 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10185068)
> 
> usually not a fan of psychoanalysis, but.  
>  _"white knight syndrome: a compulsive need to be the rescuer in an intimate relationship originating from early life experiences that left the white knight feeling damaged, guilty, shamed, or afraid"_

Leo gets hurt. And normally that wouldn't be much more of a problem than usual, but Bozie got married over the summer-- has a new wife, a family he wants to get back to. Tyler's too polite to call seniority, especially considering the circumstances (usually it'd be _him_ gracefully offering to take the forfeit), but Mo can read between the lines in the way he doesn't offer, just takes his time getting dressed after the loss.

It’s not the first time he’s done the forfeit-- the Leafs haven’t had a captain since 2015, and Mo’s an A. It’s his responsibility. It’s not the first time he’s had sex, not by a long shot. (Not the first time he’s had sex with a man, either, but that’s not something he talks about.)

It’s just… different, this time. Not as bad. He’s not sure why. Maybe because it’s the Flames-- only the guys who earn points are allowed to stay and watch, so it’s a personal, almost intimate thing. (Maybe it’s because it’s _Johnny_ running his hands down his flank while Mo pants around the raw stretch, the ache in his thighs from riding him.)

“That’s it, you’re doing great.” Johnny soothes, and Mo huffs out a laugh even as he flushes under the praise.

“I’ve done this before, you know--” Mo says, cuts himself off before he lets out an embarrassing noise, because Johnny’s wrapping a hand around his dick, tugging roughly.

“Like what, once or twice? Only baby captains get off on their forfeits-- you should’ve seen McDavid the first time we got our hands on him. He was a _mess_.”

Mo tries to hold off, he really does, but Johnny’s getting breathier, lets out a low moan that Mo can feel through his chest, and something about it all completely wrecks his stamina, has him coming all over his stomach. 

It doesn’t feel weird, to orgasm from it, even though he knows it should. Johnny’s a friend, he wanted to it be good for Mo, he thinks as he slumps forward, leaning on Johnny.

Johnny clicks his tongue at him. “Ah, ah. You’ve still got a couple more guys to get through, Mo.”

Mo lets himself be handed off, tries to clear his head before the next guy takes over, but it doesn’t help much. He feels sated, happy, and the feeling lasts until he gets back to his apartment, listens to the voicemail of Leo apologizing for not being there to take it.

“ _Sorry, Mo_ ,” Leo finishes, sounding miserable. “ _Hope they didn’t hurt you too much_.”

So. He’s weird, in that he doesn’t hate it. It even feels good sometimes, though that’s something he’d never voluntarily share. But it ends up being a blessing, because Leo’s hurt for a while, and when he comes back he’s still not entirely better. He’s favoring his right leg, looking far too stiff after games, and when the time comes Mo knows he’s not going to let him go.

“I’ll-- I’ll go. Don’t worry about it.” Mo says after a brutal loss to the Lightning. The room feels quieter than normal at his words, and Mo’s skin prickles.

Leo looks like he wants to argue, like he’s not going to let it go without a fight, but Mo’s made it hard for him. If Leo wants to be stubborn he’s going to have to _say something_ , and the room is already buzzing at the mention-- they don’t talk about it. Ever.

Frankly, it’s kind of awful, the way some of the guys treat it. It’s better when they pretend it’s not happening.

But Mo’s already ready for it, doesn’t need to wait to see if anything will come from Leo’s floundering-- he pats Leo on the shoulder and leaves. Mo tries not to feel like he screwed up too badly when Jake won’t meet his eye on the way out.

\--

It’s a few more games before Leo’s completely better. 

Some teams do it differently, only letting some participate, and that’s-- usually better, because when it becomes a spectacle guys like to show off. It usually just ends with Mo choking on someone’s dick because they got a little too enthusiastic, a tight grip around his throat. It’s definitely when the more… sadistic kinks come out. God, Mo hates Pittsburgh.

It’s not something he can hide, not really, because when he wakes up the next morning, his voice is mostly gone and he’s got a couple bruises that he can’t hope to hide. Mo usually addresses the team after a loss, but Tyler flinches slightly when Mo greets him with a hoarse ‘hello’ and ends up doing it for him.

Leo doesn’t let him go, after that. Doesn’t even give him the option. The guys relax after a few losses, once they don’t have to think about it anymore.

\--

Here’s the thing-- Leo’s getting older. He gets hurt a _lot_. But if it’s not Leo taking the forfeit, it’s Mo, because of their fucked up captain situation. It’s not a problem that needs solving, in Mo’s opinion, but Jake gets fed up with it pretty quickly. They don’t have a captain, not yet, but. They all know what’s coming.

"It's about time he learns. He's gotta get used to it sometime." Jake is saying to Naz, loud enough that they all can hear. It’s not too hard to fill in the blanks.

Auston looks a bit like the floor has fallen out from under him.

"T-- tonight?" He says, stuttering a bit, but Jake just folds his arms, unsympathetic. 

"Yeah, why not?"

"It's just, I've-- I've never--" _Oh._ Oh, no.

Freddie looks up from his stall. He’s already frustrated with the loss, but he looks different this time. Angry, almost. Scared. "You can't just _make_ him--"

"Who says?" Jake says bluntly.

“He’s not the captain--”

“Not _yet_ , but we all know he’s--” Mo can’t take it anymore, can’t stand to watch Jake practically bristling in anger. (Can’t tear his eyes away from where Auston’s standing, looking young and uncertain. Mo knows he’s soft, looks like he could be easily wrecked, but Auston’s _twenty_. Mo’s not the one that needs to be rescued, not if this is the solution.)

"I-- I'll go. It's fine." Mo says, lisping a bit, and it’s quiet, but everyone hears it.

“ _Mo_ \--” Jake says, frustrated, but Mo stops him.

“I’m _going_. Leave it alone.” (Leave _him_ alone, is what Mo means. Not that he can say it.)

\--

Mo's seen McDavid, when the Leafs beat the Oilers. He's-- he's good about it, doesn't make a fuss, but it's clear that he's in way over his head. He's a good captain, but as for the forfeit? It's... Mo thinks he shouldn't have to do it. It feels wrong.

That must be the logic of management withholding the C, as well. Auston seems insecure enough when it's other captains offering themselves up-- Mo can’t bring himself to look too far into it, is afraid of what he might see. The point still stands-- he's not _ready,_ in any sense of the word. And so-- there's Mo.

Mo wouldn’t consider himself a knight in shining armor. He’s not going off into battle, he’s not saving lives. He’s not even saving Auston, not really. He’s lingering outside the visitor’s locker room waiting to get fucked. He’s kneeling on the ground having guys jerk off over his face.

He’s trying to convince himself he doesn’t like the way it feels.

So. It’s not heroic, what he’s doing. Not really. But it’s easier when it feels like it is.

\--

If Mo’s being honest, that’s not the whole story. It’s just-- sometimes Mo looks at Auston, and he feels something, high under his ribs. It’s-- nothing. Nothing is going to come from it. Auston’s already in love.

\--

Sometimes it feels like Auston's the one trying to save _him_ , scoring late, trying to tie it up. Like he's not just trying to help the team, he's trying to help Mo, and-- it makes things easier, thinking like that. Makes his stomach feel less like lead when the final buzzer sounds, when guys start to avoid his gaze. Auston included.

It’s something to think about, to focus on, when the guys get a little mean during the forfeit.

“Getting off on your punishment, huh?” Tyler Seguin taunts, gesturing to where Mo’s dick is hard and leaking, curved up towards his stomach. Mo bites his tongue to keep from responding. He never would’ve pegged the Dallas Stars to be a particularly difficult forfeit to get through.

“He likes it, Jamie, look. You should make him ride you.”

Klingberg makes some comment, something about being in Texas and reverse cowgirl, but Mo’s distracting himself, thinking about the game, thinking about Auston’s two goals. Thinking about Auston’s laugh and smile and how he’s happy and in love.

And-- yeah, it’s fucked up, it’s _all_ fucked up, but Seguin is literally jerking it watching Mo fuck himself on Jamie’s dick, so he’s not the only one with an impending sexuality crisis on the horizon. That’s something Seguin’s going to have to work out on his own.

\--

Life is not a Taylor Swift song. Auston’s not in love with _him_ \-- Mo’s not stupid enough to actually believe that.

Here’s how it is: Auston goes home with Freddie, and Mo spends his evening on his knees in the visitor’s locker room, thinking about what it would be like if Auston came home with _him_.

\--

Management awards Auston the C. Mo knew it was coming, but he hadn’t realized he’d been holding out a little foolish hope that maybe it’d be his team. That maybe he’d been giving himself up for a less pathetic reason.

They lose to the Jets their first game with Auston as captain, snapping a point streak, and the beat writers are so ravenous that Mo catches himself slipping away early after the 0-1 loss. Anything to stop the hallowed look in Auston’s eyes from getting worse. (He looks so exhausted already. Mo hopes giving him the C wasn’t a mistake.)

Patrick Laine has the nerve to complain with Mo’s mouth hollowed around him.

“Thought we were getting Matthews-- too much of a coward to come see me himself?” He says, addressing the room, and a couple of the guys jeer and laugh.

Mo pulls off with a wet sound, can’t quite hold back the defensive indignation.

“So sorry he has more important things to take care of than getting you off.”

“Mouthy.” Laine chides, forcefully tilting Mo’s chin up. He looks mostly unbothered, lets Mo get back to work, but after that he grips Mo’s jaw tightly, jamming his thumb into the sensitive juncture of his neck. The dull, pulsing ache lingers long after he’s done. Mo doesn’t need a mirror to know that it’ll leave a mark. It makes Mo angry, the liberties they’re taking with him.

“Not the captain, but I’ll still get my money’s worth.” Wheeler tells him, and. Mo’s been more of a captain for the Leafs than Auston has, has been since he was _twenty-two_ , so it’s not fair that he’s fucking disappointed-- if anyone has suffered the most for this team it’s _Mo_ , but then Mo imagines how Auston would react to what happens next, and. Maybe it’s for the best that Auston’s not the one getting bent over the benches. (Auston, who’d never done any sort of thing like this.)

\--

Mo tells himself he’s not going again, after that. It’s… wrong, really, and there’s no way the other teams won’t start to catch on at this point, start talking.

But-- Auston pulls him aside before practice the next day, thanks him with those sweet brown eyes, wide and sincere. The C on his jersey has a length of loose string that hasn’t been trimmed yet, still so, so new, and Mo’s eyes snag on Auston’s hands when he reaches up to fuss with it, like he needs something to distract himself with.

The Leafs lose to the Sharks that weekend. 

Mo goes.

\--

It’s never been a particularly private matter, even if they don’t talk about it. It was only a matter of time before they went on a losing streak and it became unignorable. Mo shows up to Jake’s somber post-loss gathering an hour late, aching from the game and from the way he’d had to balance on just his knees, taking it from both ends.

The Flyers let everyone participate, not just goal-scorers. Mo still doesn’t feel completely clean, even after a blisteringly hot shower.

Jake _knows_ it’s a sensitive topic for him, but he’d had a particularly rough game-- got really torn into by Babs afterwards, so it’s an already-upset Jake that snaps when Mo carefully settles onto the couch next to him.

"You're kidding me-- you're _still_ going?" Jake spits, looking a bit disgusted, and conversation around them peeters out. Mo's gut burns in shame. "How long are you going let yourself be used by him?"

"Auston's not _using_ him--" Freddie interjects, immediately ready to argue, come to Auston’s defense in his absence, and, God, Mo’s jealous-- feels it low in his gut, bitter. It doesn’t change his mind. Auston still doesn’t deserve to take the punishment for the team losing.

“Could you hop off his dick for one _literal_ second? He’s the fucking _captain--”_

"Stop," Mo interrupts, barely raising his voice, but the guys fall silent as if he’d shouted. "It's fine. it's not... bad. I want to do it."

“You keep _saying_ that, you don’t need to lie--”

“It’s not a _lie_. I like it.”

Mo didn’t realize that was what he was going to say until he said it. He kind of wants to take it back. No one says anything, and when Mo looks up, they're all avoiding his gaze, looking uncomfortable. Jake looks queasy, like he’s regretting sticking up for Mo in the first place.

The whole team can sense something’s wrong, after that.

\--

It’s not even a lie. He knows it shouldn’t, that it’s wrong (it’s a _punishment_ ), but-- it feels good, most of the time. He’s not eager to do it, but clearly his body likes it. If someone has to do it, might as well be the guy who gets off on it.

That’s what he tells himself: he likes it.

\--

“Wait-- Matthews isn’t coming?”

Connor McDavid is concerned enough that he can barely get it up. Team North America solidarity, Mo guesses, though he regrets getting so close to him, because apparently Connor knows him well enough to read the way he’s burning up on the inside.

“I’d heard you’d been taking the forfeits, but you’re still--?”

Mo doesn’t want to talk about it, not with the rest of the Oilers watching. “Let me get you off,” he suggests, reaching towards Connor’s waistband, but Connor springs away.

“Mo, seriously, you shouldn’t be--” Connor starts, and _God_ , Mo is so sick of people telling him that he’s not what they want. He’s not what Auston wants, either, and usually it doesn’t hurt too badly but tonight it _stings_.

“It’s not your fucking team, McDavid, just leave it _alone_.” Mo practically spits, and some of the Oilers take a couple steps closer, a silent threat. (It’s not Mo’s team either, but. It might as well be, with all he’s given up for it.)

Connor looks trapped, because there’s no way he can keep pushing it, not when his authority’s been questioned in front of the team, so he finally lets Mo do his goddamn job. It’s easier when he doesn’t act like Mo’s his friend. 

Mo had hoped that that would be the end of it, but Connor’s always been too kind, too nosy for his own good. The next time, someone tries to stop him when he leaves. Mitch.

“ _What_.” Mo asks, trying not to let the nerves seep into his voice. It doesn’t work. Unbelievable, that he still gets _nervous_ after all this time. 

“You offering?” he asks bluntly, and Mitch flinches slightly, takes a step back. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Mo,” Mitch says sadly, and something in Mo snaps, has him pushing past Mitch. He’s nearly shaking once he’s standing at the visitor’s locker room. It’s shame, he thinks. Isn’t too sure-- everything feels a little numb, at this point. It’s not fair, that only now they want to find a solution. No one cared earlier, before McDavid made that fucking phone call. The last thing Mo needs is someone fighting his battles for him.

\--

They lose to the Avalanche. Because of course they do. It doesn’t get any easier, getting put in his place by too-eager rookies, by guys that aren’t too considerate of where they stick their dicks. 

Mo’s not too sure when he started counting the season in losses instead of wins. They’re winning more than they’re losing, which Mo supposes he should be grateful for. It’s hard to muster up relief, though, since any time they do lose, it’s Mo’s ass on the line.

He’s been heartsick a little too long, probably. It doesn’t make him feel bubbly inside anymore, doesn’t give him butterflies. Just makes him feel heavy, weighed down. Nothing about the forfeit is easy, but. It’s getting harder to convince himself that he’s happy to do it.

“Mo? Why are _you_ here?” Nate asks, sounding baffled, and Mo shrugs, mumbles something noncommittal about taking turns.

“Is this even allowed?” EJ says, skeptical, but he doesn’t protest when Mo sinks to his knees in front of him.

He knows what to do. He can read people, now. See what they want. Knows how to soothe the younger guys, shaky and uncertain in front of their vets. Knows how to break-- how to provide cruel vindication-- without actually shaking apart. Mo can let himself be put back together by the guys that feel the need to care for him in order to absolve themselves of any guilt. They all want _something_ , sex or control or comfort. 

Tyson Barrie helps him up to the showers, after. 

“I get it.” Tyson says, after a while of silence. Mo’s going through his routine, meticulously cleaning. It helps him let go, reset. He doesn’t respond, just hums to let him know he’s heard. Tyson wants him to listen, wants to get whatever this is off his chest. It’s not sex, but it's still something Mo can give.

“I’d do it for him, too. For Gabe.” He confesses, barely a whisper.

Mo nods, swallows against the urge to spill his own secrets. It’s not an invitation to share his own regrets. That’s not what this is-- they’re still at the rink. It’s a punishment, even if it’s a comfort to hear.

They’re in Denver. Mo’s got a taxi ride and a cold, unfamiliar hotel room waiting for him. He's not sure if anyone will be waiting up for him, at this point.

Tyson visibly hesitates after they’ve dressed, shifting his weight back and forth.

“Do you want-- do you want to sleep at my place tonight? I’ve got a guest room. Off the books.”

Mo must really look like shit, if he’s offering, but he really needs a break. Needs someone to listen, and it sounds like Tyson’s willing.

Mo accepts.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought!


End file.
